


With Good Intentions

by Cosmic_Retribution



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Angel Crowley (Good Omens), Angst, Autistic Aziraphale, Beelzebub uses ze/zir pronouns (based on Gaiman's tumblr post regarding Beelzebub's pronouns), Crowley has Trauma, Demon!Aziraphale, Fallen Angel Aziraphale (Good Omens), M/M, PTSD kinda?, Trans Aziraphale (Good Omens), extremely reluctant demon Aziraphale, more tags to be added as needed, post-canon/post-body swap, the major character death ISN'T Aziraphale or Crowley, unfortunately. a good deal of angst. as to be expected
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-14
Updated: 2019-08-31
Packaged: 2020-06-27 20:54:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,247
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19797592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cosmic_Retribution/pseuds/Cosmic_Retribution
Summary: He thinks of Crowley tenderly draping a blanket over his shoulders and encouraging him to put Agnes’s final prophecy down and come get some well-earned rest.I’m sure you’ll have plenty of time to decipher it tomorrow, Angel,he had said. Plenty of time. Aziraphale’s throat constricts.The flames are too close, too close, too close. He feels the heat in his bones, and his hands are trembling. His whole body is rigid with it. It’s not quite anger, it’s not quite hate, he decides, that peculiar feeling consuming him.It’s greater than anger.----Alternate universe where, despite failing to heed Agnes's final prophecy, Aziraphale and Crowley survive their sides' respective punishments. Subsequently, Heaven and Hell come to the only logical conclusion: Aziraphale has Fallen, and Crowley has been Redeemed. This is a nightmare scenario for Aziraphale-- surely this must be some sort of cruel cosmic joke?-- but then again, he has never been one to question God's Ineffable Plan...





	1. may your feet serve you well (and the rest be sent to hell)

It’s a peculiar feeling building in his chest, and he doesn't put a name to it yet. The silence in the sterile white emptiness of Heaven is so much louder than he has ever heard it before, and it’s not quite fear, he decides. Silent save for the malevolent crackle of the column of hellfire looming before him, ever closer, ten steps more and to oblivion. _Just shut your stupid mouth and die already_. So be it, says the strange, white-hot hollowness in his chest; his footsteps are perhaps right now the loudest thing any of them has ever heard, nerves twisted up in sick suspense.

_Just shut your stupid mouth and die already._ For the crime of existing? For caring? Unable to summon the backbone to smite him themselves, they expect him to step into the fire? It’s a tremendous sense of wild, agonizing injustice that wells up inside him and falls away to something numb and ice-hot, something that thrums wretchedly with every throb of his quickly-beating heart.

But Aziraphale was always, always dutiful. Always obedient. Almost.

It’s not quite resignation, he decides, not quite anxiety. Five steps from the void, he thinks numbly of Crowley. He thinks of Crowley afraid for him, he thinks of Crowley alone in his soon-to-be absence and his heart hurts dully for him, but worse, he thinks of Crowley facing some equivalent fate, and he cannot bear it. He thinks instead of Crowley’s cold hands and the late night’s bus out of Tadfield back to his flat, and he thinks of Crowley as he saw him then, the only other being in the universe who had ever truly understood him, who carried always a tremendous compassion for foolish, oblivious Aziraphale in his heart; he thinks of Crowley tenderly draping a blanket over his shoulders and encouraging him to put Agnes’s final prophecy down and come get some well-earned rest. _I’m sure you’ll have plenty of time to decipher it tomorrow, Angel,_ he had said. Plenty of time. Aziraphale’s throat constricts.

The flames are too close, too close, too close. He feels the heat in his bones, and his hands are trembling. His whole body is rigid with it. It’s not quite anger, it’s not quite hate, he decides, that peculiar feeling consuming him. He breathes his final breath and steps into the flames.

It’s greater than anger.

He cannot even feel anything anymore except for this, the hollow, all-consuming, silent scream that renders him both trembling with the wrongness and injustice of it all and rigid with the weight of every tremendously precious moment of peace well-earned that he is about to surrender. The world is saved and this is the end of the angel Aziraphale, whose life is to be thrown away for naught but the shallow vindication of the caricature of contempt watching him burn.

And then, he realizes that he isn’t burning at all.

  


* * *

  


The events that transpired next happened much too fast.

Next thing he knows, he’s lying on the cold, hard ground in a dark place without the strength in his battered body to pick himself back up. Before that, though, he must presumably have stepped out of the hellfire, and someone presumably tackled him. This part, before, is a blur: he remembers Gabriel and the others talking in hushed, furious, unnerved voices, someone whispering urgently into a phone. He remembers his wings being bound up, remembers being forcefully escorted up a long, long way in silence.

At the top, they had stepped out onto the roof, and Gabriel finally addressed him. “Aziraphale,” he said measuredly, “Heaven has… put up with a great deal of the grief you’ve caused us all over the years, but I’m certain even you understand that this is too much.”

Aziraphale did not say anything, staring blankly ahead at the vast expanse of pale nothingness.

Gabriel waited one polite moment, hands clasped together and lips pressed into a thin line. “I’ve discussed your fate with the others, and we decided that this is the only justice we can spare for you at this point. If the hellfire didn’t burn you, Aziraphale, you understand that can mean only one thing: that you must be a demon.”

“A demon?” Aziraphale echoed incredulously. “But I’m-- of course, I’m not a--“

“In addition to surviving the flames of Hell,” Gabriel marched on blandly without pause, “our sources tell us that not only have you spent _millennia_ cavorting with the demon Crowley, you have _willingly_ performed demonic tempting work--“

“I couldn’t _possibly_ expect you to understand--“

“--and forcibly possessed the body of a mortal,” Gabriel finished. “Who among us would argue that these are _not_ the actions of a demon?”

There was a murmur of agreement from the others, and Aziraphale’s heart thumped rapidly in his chest.

“So, I, Archangel Gabriel, hereby sentence you to be cast down into Hell, blah blah fallen angel, blah blah you shall never set foot in the Almighty’s holy realm again or be destroyed, you get the picture.” He smiled insincerely. “We’re throwing you to the wolves. You want to be a demon so badly? Have it your way, then. Don’t say we never showed you any mercy.”

Aziraphale sucked in a shaky breath. “You can’t do this,” he argued pleadingly. “You-- you don’t understand,” he said, and then, “you would sentence me to eternal damnation for disagreeing with you, Gabriel? You would cast me out for daring to follow my own conscience, for _protecting the world from destruction?_ I knew you wouldn’t take it well, but this is simply a wild overreaction--“

“It has already been arranged. Beelzebub will be waiting to collect you.” He felt a hand on his back push him forward. “And speaking of _collect_ , we will be needing to meet Michael and our little problem at the Gate shortly,” Gabriel said. “We’ve run out of time for you. Come on.” He gave Aziraphale a harsh shove, and Aziraphale stumbled forward, dangerously close to the roof’s edge.

He strained his wings again, strained his wrists, but the bindings held tight, and he opened his mouth to give voice to another frightened, outraged plea, but came up short. The infinite pale sky loomed before him.

“I will not forget this,” Aziraphale vowed gravely, voice trembling.

“That’s nice,” said Gabriel. “Enjoy your Fall, Aziraphale. I’d say we’ll miss you, but we won’t. Goodbye forever now.”

Gabriel gave one last shove, and Aziraphale plunged over the edge.

  


* * *

  


Michael is digging her nails into his arm and her steps are quick enough that he stumbles in trying to keep up, forced to limp awkwardly behind her in an attempt to preserve blood flow to his arm.

Of course, Crowley thinks, she wants to get out of Hell, and she wants to get out of here _now_ , and the simple act of his existence has likely thrown a gigantic wrench into whatever her day plans were. That’s a funny thing to think, and he ponders nebulously the fate of the ruined park date he and Aziraphale had been trying to enjoy. He is pretty sure he is having the worse day.

On top of that, he’s hardly had an instant to even process what was happening ever since he found himself being towed down here like a goddamn prisoner. He doesn’t know how to explain it, he thinks, as fresh air finally hits his face and the Archangel currently dragging him pauses for a brief moment to get her bearings.

“Need directions?” Crowley asks sarcastically but unmaliciously. She doesn’t reply, but he sees her press her lips together in a harsh line of thinly-veiled stress. (Crowley tends to have that effect on people.)

She puts her phone up to her ear again and starts off toward the direction of what would appear to be the closest unoccupied wide-open area, which isn’t very close, and Crowley’s feet are starting to hurt, and his arm is like, pretty numb. Then he sees a trio of angels in the looming distance, and for the first time since being ineffectually doused in holy water he remembers to feel uneasy.

“Uriel, Gabriel, and uhhh… Sandalphon, right, wasn’t it?” he greets with inappropriate casualness. “Fancy meeting you lot here, huh?” and they all stare at him like he’s grown a second head, nearly recoiling. “Now… would someone mind explaining to me what in the name of _fuck_ is going on here?”

They all exchange looks of disgust and incredulousness and trepidation.

“In words, please?” He repeats.

Michael clears her throat.

“Much to our tremendous chagrin, we of Heaven and Hell alike have determined that you belong with us now,” she says succinctly.

“That’s funny,” Crowley says. Gabriel frowns.

“It isn’t a joke,” says Sandalphon.

“You can’t just bring a _demon_ into Heaven, can you?” Crowley questions.

“But you weren’t burned by the holy water,” Uriel says.

“I saw it with my own eyes,” Michael agrees grimly. “And clearly, no _demon_ could ever survive such a thing, wouldn’t you agree?”

“I-- no, I wouldn’t,” Crowley exclaims, the gravity of the situation finally beginning to sink in. “You can’t just-- can you even _decide_ these kinds of things, isn’t that outside your-- what, you’re just going to-- going to what, lock me up in a bland white cell for eternity and force me to listen to hideous music?-- You, I mean, I-- what in Satan’s name are you playing at?”

Uriel grimaces to Michael, who looks beseechingly to Gabriel, who grimaces in turn. Crowley is about ready to scream.

“We’ve already worked out a deal with Downstairs,” Gabriel finally says. “Part of that deal means that you’re our problem now, and likewise, we’re yours. I trust you’ll find your unfortunate _redemption_ as… distasteful as we find you.”

In the background, Uriel snaps her fingers.

Nothing happens for a moment, but then he sees the light shudder and the air contort. He blinks, and what would appear to be a colossal golden stairway flickers sinisterly before him, reaching infinitely higher than his eyes can comprehend. Crowley forgets to breathe for a precarious moment.

“You can’t possibly be serious,” says Crowley.

“You’d best come quietly,” says Michael.

Crowley blinks furiously. “Or what? This is insane! I’m a demon, I-- I’ve done nothing to you!! This is basi-- this is demon-napping! What do you expect to gain by--“ he is interrupted by Sandalphon gripping his arm roughly, and Crowley instinctively wrenches it free.

“You’re going to resist, huh?” Gabriel says and snaps.

A thousand strands of white-hot light burst forth from his fingertips, and in the space it takes for him to take one hurried half-step back they’ve already coiled all around him: his neck, his wrists, his legs. A strangled yelp manages to slip out as they constrict, pulling tighter still, so much so that he feels like he’s going to shatter.

The four angels give him one last look, turn around and begin to walk up the steps. Crowley’s body follows suit.

“What have you done??” He chokes out laboredly, horrified as his legs do not obey him. No one bothers to answer him, and they tread on, step by agonizing step, his body moving against his will as though it were a puppeteer’s doll.

And they ascend.

There is a terrible sense of pressure growing in his chest, growing with every miserable step they climb, like a supernova expanding in slow motion in his lungs. His legs are numb and weak and his skin feels like it is burning. The angels march on in silence. He begins to feel like he might faint, and then he begins to feel like maybe he has already fainted and just hasn’t realized yet. Then, distantly at first, but growing pressingly unsettling, he feels a strange sense of familiarity, a sort of apprehension and premonition.

Summoning a tremendous effort, he makes his own head turn up toward the infinite sky, and his heart plummets with recognition and terror. He sees a falling star.

“ _Aziraphale!_ ” he forces himself to scream, and scream he does until his voice is raw and hoarse and he cannot feel anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> : )  
> Well! I hope you liked it so far. I've been obsessing over this au for a couple weeks, but writing something and thinking about it Very Hard are entirely different things.  
> I have finished also the second chapter. I'm going to be out of town for a few days, and I will be posting chapter two when I get back (in less than a week).  
> I have great plans for this story; here's to hoping they pan out as I envision they will. Also, this is my first stab at chapter titles. Do you have any idea how many Edgy Songs™ I had to daydream to to make these words go? ch1's title is from p!atd's "Let's Kill Tonight". 
> 
> Thanks to my friends, who I'll just call Z, E and A, for listening to me infodump about my plans for my story. Special thanks to my dear Rezi, my partner in crime, the Crowley to my Aziraphale, without whom this story would still be a vague concept rolling around in the back of my head.


	2. hold my breath as this life starts to take its toll

It was excruciating and unending.

It was a sense of terror that wildly transcended simple screaming or sobbing; it was the sick, visceral, weightless vertigo in the pit of your stomach when you find yourself one step too close to the brink, multiplied by a number so great it hasn’t been named. It was the kind of absolute, all-encompassing fear that living souls were not designed to bear, and he crumpled under the terrible weight of it in an instant.

Aziraphale’s lungs were made of fire and his heart was full of ice. It felt like the world was ending, coming apart at the seams. He felt a thousand white threads stretching taut, snapping free, unraveling something deep in the core of his being. It was the most devastating, earth-shattering experience imaginable, and he felt that he could endure it no more, but the sky refused to end and his terror spun out of control.

He was certain he was going to go mad, fall apart, disintegrate into countless particles of ash and agony, but before he could succumb to utter annihilation he perceived a faint, discordant resonance somewhere beyond his reach.

He clung to that distant, familiar note, and the world dissolved into static and fire.

* * *

Next thing he knows, he’s lying on the cold, hard ground in a dark place without the strength in his battered body to pick himself back up.

Aziraphale feels absolutely gutted, lying there on the dingy linoleum tiles. His skin feels like it’s made of embers and he is distantly aware of a positively dreadful headache brewing, but he does not have the energy in himself to care. He could just lie here until the world crumbles into dust and eternity transpires in its entirety for all he cares right now, and that would be fine. He is devastated, naturally, in every sense of the word, but even that is overshadowed by an unspeakable feeling of just… emptiness.

It’s an aching sense of hollowness, nothingness, apathy. It would almost hurt, if his weary heart could summon up the energy to hurt for it in that moment. This, of course, results in him continuing to lie on the ground like a kicked angel for a period of time that could have been hours or days, before eventually the emptiness bleeds over into the pathetic emotion of feeling vaguely sorry for himself. Has he truly not suffered enough? Had not he earned one quiet outing with his Crowley after six thousand years and one fateful day? How could even _Gabriel_ do this to him-- how could the Almighty allow it-- he immediately chases the wretched thought from his head, and repeats for the dozenth time that he has himself to blame for it all. But _then_ , after one long ‘eventually’, vague self-pity warps into nebulous dread and apprehension, and he finally manages to rouse himself from his self-made void.

That said, he discovers much to his dismay that he is still weak from the Fall, and prying himself up off the cold tiles is easier thought than done. But he picks up on for the first time a stirring in the vicinity and he opens his eyes and looks up, only to find himself staring up into the unfortunate countenance of the Prince of Hell zirself, Beelzebub.

A spike of weightless adrenaline shoots through him and he manages at least to pick his head up off the floor and make a weak attempt at scrambling away.

“About time,” is all ze says in response, and extends one hand down to help him up.

* * *

It’s quite a stir he manages to cause in the short time he’s down there by this point.

Beelzebub leads him through several winding hallways and crowded rooms at a pace slightly too brisk for him to adequately keep up in these unfamiliar surroundings. Everywhere they go, of course, demons of all kinds stop and stare and whisper, but at this point, he does not have time to process that or really respond to it at all. When they come to a stop, he overhears Beelzebub ordering an unfamiliar demon with an overeager expression and long ginger hair tied back in a ponytail to fetch some sort of paperwork. He also gathers from a brief argument that the requested document does not, strictly speaking, exist at this point in time, so they’re going to have to print one out for him. Great, or whatever.

This is about the point that Aziraphale starts oscillating quickly between anxiety and existential terror, and sullen, irritable bitterness.

“I shouldn’t be here,” he starts worriedly. “This is all a _complete_ mistake.”

“Mm-hmm,” Beelzebub replies.

“You don’t understand,” Aziraphale says pleadingly. “I’m quite serious.”

“That’s nice,” Beelzebub says disinterestedly.

“I-- I don’t belong here. I need to leave immediately-- I’m not a demon-- I’m an angel, I shouldn’t be here at all.”

Beelzebub looks at him with an expression that approaches vague sympathy but falls somewhere short into the valley of bemused disgust.

“You’re not the first demon to say so,” ze says.

“But I’m _really_ not a demon!” Aziraphale is protesting when Beelzebub leaps to zir feet, whips out an ornate black dagger from seemingly nowhere and paces casually around to the other side of him, much to the reasonable concern of Aziraphale.

“What are you doing?” He asks, and ze reaches up and slices through the white glowing tendril currently binding his wings, which he had failed to properly notice until the point at which it’s crumbling to ash on the floor.

“Look at that,” ze says simply, indicating his left wing.

Nothing appears to be amiss about it upon first inspection, much to his initial relief, other than the general disarray that comes with falling incomprehensible distances. That said, it’s probably because his already frazzled mind _really_ didn’t want to notice the single jet-black primary feather nestled among the rest.

His stomach flips.

“What do you have to say about that, then, angel-boy?” Beelzebub remarks humorlessly, and Aziraphale is quiet until the other demon (Dagon, he eventually learns) arrives to deliver the requested paperwork.

He intuits, rather than is told, that it has something to do with documenting his “becoming a demon”, which he chooses to continue being skeptical about for his own sake. It means mostly that he gets to stand around uncomfortably while Beelzebub sits at a counter and fills it out, asking him questions intermittently.

“Reason for Fall?” ze asks at one point.

“Oh, I don’t know,” Aziraphale mumbles sarcastically, pointedly not looking up, “I suppose I just caught Gabriel in a horribly sadistic mood?”

This was said as a joke, but Beelzebub just nodded understandingly and scribbled it down. “He’s a bitch like that,” ze says.

(He would generally be inclined to agree, but now that just makes him mad.)

The fluorescent lights flicker and buzz and wink on and off intermittently in a most intolerable manner, and it’s making his head hurt listening to them. He hears stomping footsteps, doors and cabinets slamming, and raucous voices faintly from distant rooms. The air is stiff and stale; every reluctant breath drawn into his lungs makes him feel sick inside, and he is aware that he doesn’t strictly _need_ to breathe, but this is a thousands-of-years-old habit and if he’ll be damned if he chooses not to do it now. Even the scritch of Beelzebub’s pen over paper makes him want to snap. And he is stuck here, he thinks miserably as he drums an absentminded _tap-tap-pause_ rhythm out with his fingertips on his arm, for the foreseeable future, which may be forever. He’s not sure if he wants to cry or flip a table.

Eventually the intolerable grating of Beelzebub’s pen pauses again. “Any instances of Demonic Activity pre-Fall you feel like taking credit for?” Ze says. “I suppose not.”

“Actually,” Aziraphale snips testily, and rattles off the embarrassingly long list of temptations he’s covered for Crowley over the years from memory.

Beelzebub looks confused and a tiny bit impressed, which he instantly hates, and regrets opening his mouth over immediately. “Really, all that? Why should I take your word for it-- why would you even do such a thing if you’re so pompously opposed to the notion you’re anything less than holier-than-thou?”

“We had an arrangement,” he mumbles reluctantly. “I did those for Crowley.” No sense being coy about it now, he supposes.

“That would explain why they sound familiar,” Beelzebub decides. Ze doesn’t grill him any further on whether or not he’s lying, which initially seems strange, but then he realizes it’s probably because it is not hard to believe that Crowley would simply take credit for someone else’s misdeeds, which is understandable.

“Relationship to His Diabolical Lordship Lucifer or to any other Fallen Ones?” Beelzebub prompts him.

“Uhh, not applicable,” Aziraphale says.

“I’m going to put down ‘boyfriend of the demon Crowley’,” Beelzebub replies without looking up.

“…That’s fair,” Aziraphale says.

Then it occurs to Aziraphale to become anxious on his behalf, and he feels a jab of unease in the pit of his stomach.

“Where is he?” Aziraphale asks. “Where is Crowley? He-- he’ll be terribly worried about me. What has become of him?”

“I don’t believe I’m exactly supposed to tell you.”

Aziraphale clenches his fists. “And you can’t say because take orders from someone else, now, is that so?”

It’s _extremely_ cheap bait, which both of them are aware of, but Beelzebub falls for it regardless.

“We traded him for you,” Beelzebub relents.

“ _What?_ ”

“I said Heaven decided to give us a ring, wanting to get rid of you, and we said if they wanted to dump their garbage here then they’d have to take something off our hands in return,” Beelzebub says, measured and malicious.

Aziraphale reels with shock and hurt.

“Wh… Why would you do such a thing?” He pleads quietly.

“Oh, I’d say it’s a fair trade,” Beelzebub continues, clicking zir pen absently. “In fact, I might go so far as to say we got the better end of the bargain. I must admit, I’m excited by the possibilities of having a fresh face down here-- someone even remotely competent.”

“Competent?” Aziraphale echoes, offended by the notion that he is even halfway so.

“Surely you wouldn’t argue that you stayed the Apocalypse and diverted the fate of the universe as we know it by accident.”

Aziraphale silently begs to differ, but ze has a point, and he doesn’t like that. He doesn’t like the edge of sick, hungry curiosity to zir voice, as though he is a particularly interesting specimen in an experiment ze is dying to conduct. It makes his skin crawl with disgust and horror.

“This isn’t-- this can’t possibly be right. I- I want to speak with the Almighty,” Aziraphale demands, frightened for his sake and for Crowley’s in equal measure.

Beelzebub looks up at him with bewilderment and disgust. “From _Hell?_ ” Ze says as if it’s the most ridiculous thing in the world, which it is, and Aziraphale is silent with dismay until Beelzebub finishes up writing.

Ze turns over the last page of the document, giving it a brief once-over before standing up and handing it to Aziraphale. “I want you to take this and deliver it to Dagon,” ze says.

“By myself?” Anxiety churns in his chest.

“You expect me to hold your hand the whole way there?” Beelzebub sneers.

“But I don’t know where Dagon is.”

Beelzebub turns and slowly points down one long and narrow hallway, which lets out into a room as crowded and dingy as the rest of them, packed with unfamiliar demons. “Down the hall. Go as far forward as you can go, then take a left.”

“And then what?” Aziraphale worries. “What if I get lost?”

“You won’t get lost, but if you do, it’ll be because you chose not to pay attention,” Beelzebub retorts. “And I’m sure you can get _somebody_ to give you directions. As for what to do next, Dagon or Hastur will instruct you. Now go; I have duties to attend to.”

Aziraphale takes a few hesitant steps toward the hallway, clutching the paper in his hands.

“Get out,” Beelzebub growls as he lingers in the doorway, so he does, taking one more shaky breath and setting off at as brisk a pace he can manage without stumbling.

It’s worth noting that Aziraphale has ever been the odd one out, even amongst the other angels in Heaven. He chooses generally not to dwell on the hows and whys, but this is something he has had to cope with his whole life. So now, as he strides forward in long steps with false confidence and a head held high past the hordes of silent, staring demons, he is at least prepared in terms of how to act in order to preserve himself. Walking with dignity is the first survival skill he has ever had to learn; it served him well in the austere halls of Heaven, and it serves him now in the black depths of Hell. If they do see his hands trembling, then no one still dares to stop him.

He spies the ginger ponytail of Dagon, who turns around to face him in wake of the quiet he brings with him. He hands the document over without a word, willing his wildly beating heart not to give away his trepidation.

Dagon simply flashes him an eerie grin and says, “welcome to Hell.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Neil Gaiman's tumblr post regarding Beelzebub's pronouns: https://neil-gaiman.tumblr.com/post/185706909566/what-are-beelzebubs-pronouns-in-the-tv-series-at 
> 
> Thank you so much for your kindness and support of this story; I'm overjoyed to see how well it is being received so far. One kind commenter brought to my attention that I would happen to be the proud owner of one out of two (2) current fics with the "Autistic Aziraphale" tag. I'm a bit surprised that Mr. A. Z. "best quality: his wiggles" Fell isn't more commonly headcannoned as such. At any rate, he is depicted having a mild sensory overload in this chapter, and _tap-tap-pause_ is one of my own stims. Also, I am basically just making up the inner workings of Hell (and Heaven) as I go. I do what I want, I guess. *kickflips out the window* 
> 
> Chapter three is about 500 words in the works. I can't exactly pin down exactly when I predict it will be done, but my best guess is about another week, give or take a few days. Chapter three is a Crowley-oriented chapter. 
> 
> Today's edgy lyric chapter title of the day is from "Away From Me" by Evanescence. See you folks next time. I hope you enjoy this chapter.


	3. but every hour slipping by screams that I have failed you

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> slightly updated the tags of this story. take a look if you like.

To begin with, Crowley’s remark that they would “imprison him in a bland white cell” wasn’t very far off the mark at all.

They dragged him into Heaven all but kicking and screaming, furious and hysterical. That part was a blur; he has nearly nixed it from his memory, it was painful, and he remembers not much after the stairway. His mind had only enough room in it to replay the unyielding existential despair felt at seeing Aziraphale Falling, over and over and over again, until it has become entwined and tangled up with the messy, raw memory of his own Fall six thousand years prior, until they are the same experience in his head.

So he doesn’t remember much from that point until he relearned how to put his battered heart back into his chest and his head back in the present again. He does have a vague recollection of threatening to fistfight God for Aziraphale’s honor, though. (He still thinks that was kind of iconic of him but of course the other, more stuck up angels were simply mortified and disgusted.)

It would be fair to say that angels regarded him almost universally with unease and revulsion. They didn’t like the way he talked, didn’t like the way he walked, didn’t like the way he moved like he both knew exactly where to set each foot and like he was so very lost in the same way. They didn’t like the things he knew, they didn’t like the jokes he made, they didn’t like the way he wasn’t afraid of them like they were of him. They did not like his eyes. They couldn’t stand his eyes. They couldn’t stand him.

So they sent him to the little white room.

While not requiring lodging accommodations in exactly the same sense as humans did, they did technically have ‘rooms’, the angels. They could be almost more accurately described as closets, though, really; the main two functions of them were, firstly, that each angel would have somewhere to keep those things they were charged with keeping track of when not in use, such as old files and equipment, and secondly, that each angel could be sent away somewhere when not currently being used.

They did _try_ to use him, is the thing. To their credit, sending him away wasn’t their first resort. They put him on little duties like sorting and running messages and moving items from point A to point B, insultingly easy things, really. But Crowley is a creature of spite, or he can be when he chooses. Was the consequence infinitely more unbearable than the indignity, yes. But was he going to do _work_ for these _fuckers_ of his own volition? Absolutely not. So he took literally every opportunity he could to sow mild chaos and inconvenience, “misplacing” papers, knocking over stacks of files “on accident”, or, if all else failed, just exist a little too much, for it never failed to make them squirm to see him be unapologetically other. They got tired of it all so very fast.

The little white room was not the one that may or may not have once belonged to an angel who was named something like Crawley (or what fucking ever it used to be) at the beginning of the universe. Were such an unfamiliar angel’s room to be assigned to him, that would be just fine.

What was _not_ just fine was the pale prison filled largely with impersonal artifacts of Aziraphale’s that he was confined to, day after unbearable day, for unbroken months at a time.

* * *

It would be just under a year before they would finally release him to where he stands now, beneath the bleak sky at some park somewhere, but that’s not the point.

The point is that there were two things and two things only in the white room that were of any kind of note. The first, tucked up in a corner out of the way and covered in dust: the tarnished crown.

This was the one that perplexed him at first, before understanding caught up to him as he took it down to hold in his hands. Why would such a thing be in here? There was a long moment of a feeling almost déjà vu-like in nature, a vague, unknown familiarity, turning it over and over and feeling the unnaturally cold metal in his palms. It did dawn on him, inevitably-- the crown, of course, was a symbol of the Principalities.

He tried to envision Aziraphale ever wearing it, and he couldn’t, or perhaps it was rather that he wouldn’t. He didn’t like the austere formality of it juxtaposed with the resolute softness of his angel in the same way that he generally tried not to picture Aziraphale as a soldier, tried not to remember if he ever maybe did or didn’t meet an unfamiliar angel bearing his face in battle once. _I’ve never killed anything before,_ Aziraphale would say. _I’m the nice one,_ Aziraphale would say, and that’s exactly the way he would choose to picture him. (Crowley also sort of knew better-- his angel could be a devious little thing-- but he would never, never quibble with him regardless.)

So, that dark metal symbol of numb authority and his understanding of Aziraphale as a living, feeling entity he’d fought long and hard to come to know, they were fundamentally incompatible with each other. Still, the existence of such an item was kind of a surreal reminder that contrary to six thousand years of intertwined existence, Aziraphale was not breathed into existence for Crowley’s sake. That’s a sharp one, that understanding, and it makes his heart feel bright and cold and alien to him, as always.

The crown was just one of two. The second, strategically placed against the wall behind the door as though intentionally hidden: Aziraphale’s flaming sword.

This one, Crowley was acutely aware, was _not_ supposed to be here. He remembered the postman taking it, like the other artifacts, away at the end of the night of the averted apocalypse just before he and Aziraphale caught the bus home. He remembered Aziraphale, just a little bit crestfallen, not quite wanting to part with it after finally finding it again after all of human history, but why would it end up here? It must be a mistake, he’d thought first; surely they had fetched it back for a reason, presumably to be taken back and recatalogued and stowed with the rest of the celestial weapons or whatever. But then, no, _definitely_ , he had thought-- this was a deliberate thing. It had to have been, and he just hadn’t yet seen the importance of it. So he knew quite quickly that this was something he would keep to himself.

In the present, though, he is standing in a park.

It’s not St. James, which he is distantly thankful for; he doesn’t think he could bear to be there alone right now, though he’s not precisely sure where else it is. The scenery isn’t important, but the weather is pale and overcast, and the wind isn’t _quite_ cold. It’s July, probably, and it might be a Tuesday, he thinks, but isn’t sure. The time is probably sometime after three in the afternoon, and a bit distantly he hears the rumblings of mild traffic. The park is empty save for himself, or it was, only now he’s caught sight of a woman marching toward him with awkward but relatively certain steps.

There’s something familiar about her, he thinks. He doesn’t quite place her until he catches the look in her eyes when she doesn’t know he’s watching: inquisitive, confident, compassionate, wary.

“Anathema Device,” he greets her as though he’s weighing her name on his tongue.

He doesn’t know it yet, but this is about to be an important event.

“Crowley, was it?” She says as she comes to a halt not quite mid-stride. “It’s, uh. Been a long time.”

“So it has,” he says, not yet acknowledging the question in it.

It doesn’t deter her. “Where have you been, since the Apocalypse that didn’t happen?” Straight to the point.

Can he get away with not explaining it to her without outright lying? “Being that you’re a self-proclaimed occultist, one would think you’d _know_ where people like me shove off to when we’re not busy interfering with the lives of humans.”

A beat. “So you’re telling me you’ve been down in Hell for a year then?”

“One would think,” he half-agrees.

“Except that’s not the case at all, is it,” she says.

No dice, then.

“What makes you say that?” Crowley asks, and then, “in fact, what does it matter to you?”

“It’s just that I’ve been. Looking for you,” says Anathema. “You, I mean, and your partner both. And I haven’t found you. Until now.”

“Looking for us?” Crowley repeats. “What for?”

She’s quiet for a moment. “It’s hard to explain,” she says, and there it is, a measure of uncertainty, like she has only now realized the oddness of the whole situation. “It’s… I almost want to say it’s that I just felt like I _should,_ but that’s… not quite right. I-- I’ve kept in touch with Adam and his friends. I even give Madame Tracey and Shadwell a call once in a while-- I don’t know. Maybe it wouldn’t make sense to you,” she says, looking fixedly into the middle distance.

It does, Crowley thinks but doesn’t say. Of course, that Anathema would feel a connection to those who stood together at the end of the world, that’s a thing he can understand. It’s a human emotion, but it’s one that hits home.

“But that’s not the point,” she says eventually. “I looked for you, and I didn’t find you. I looked up your number in the phone book and you never answered when I called. I asked people where you were-- no one had seen you since then-- I even went to the book shop, the one your angel friend runs. Nothing.”

“The book shop,” Crowley repeats without quite saying it directly to her, eyes going a bit unfocused. “The shop… it burned down… of course there was nothing.”

“Burned down? What do you mean it burned down?”

“What are you _saying?_ Of course it burned down, you had to have seen it! The whole thing went up in flames, I didn’t get there fast enough to--” he draws in a breath. “Are you _sure_ you had the right shop?”

“Of course I am. A.Z. Fell and Co., Antiquarian and Unusual Books, right? It had to have been. I even saw your old black car parked around back, of course I’d recognize _that_ ,” she says in the specific voice of a woman talking to the man who hit her bike with his car and who insists, ridiculously, that it was the other way around. “No, it was fine. Closed, though, definitely, all locked up. It’s a miracle neither one has been broken into.”

Crowley lets this sink in for a good long moment.

Anathema says, “actually, I even tried summoning you, once. It didn’t work.”

“Obviously,” Crowley mumbles without thinking.

“So… that’s how I know you weren’t there. That, and there’s just something… different about you,” she says.

Crowley is quiet for a while still, momentarily fixating on the distant sound of a bird’s cawing and the bracing sharpness of the wind.

“Would you like to know what has happened to me?” He asks finally, carefully.

“I would,” she admits, “but it’s your story to tell. If all I walk away with today is the knowledge that you’re still out there in this world, then fine.”

There is something to be said for the fact that, at the end of the day, Anathema is quite literally the first friendly face he has encountered in at least eleven solid months.

Whole seasons have breathed and died since last Crowley has been regarded with empathy. And he’s gone without before, but at the end of the day, he is tired, he has been largely stripped of dignity and autonomy, and he has imprisoned in painful familiar-unfamiliarity long enough to make him feel insignificant and alone in a way that weighs heavy on his shoulders and in his bones.

So he talks. He explains. He tells her about Aziraphale, in the darkness of his flat, murmuring incoherently about Agnes’s final prophecy to him until the black hours of the morning. He tells her about having him taken away from him. He tells her about the stairway and about being dragged back to Heaven bound up like a broken doll. He tells her about the white room. He tells her about sifting through every single godforsaken file folder contained within just to pass the time, he tells her about scream-singing the lyrics of every song he could remember to the blank walls in defiance. He tells her about the last time he saw Aziraphale and screaming his throat raw for him. He tells her about Falling. He’ll regret it, or maybe he won’t, because it’s choosing to be an open person when his default stance is closed-off, but this time, he chooses to trust.

There _are_ things he doesn’t tell her. He doesn’t say that the morning in the park he had been sharing with Aziraphale was supposed to be a date, or he’d hoped it would be. He doesn’t say anything about the tarnished crown, he doesn’t mention the sword. He doesn’t explain how much it hurts to be confined within those familiar halls on terms like these. He doesn’t talk about the thinly-veiled contempt the angels hold toward him, nor the whispers about Aziraphale he’s heard there, the rumors, the cruel half-truths they breathe behind his back when they think he’s not listening. He doesn’t tell her that the latter cut him deeper than the former.

But they keep talking, is the thing. Mostly, he keeps talking, and she keeps listening.

“Can I tell you something very personal?” Crowley asks her eventually.

“Of course,” Anathema says.

He tells her a memory he has of a little, insignificant moment.

“Aziraphale and I, I-- I can’t even remember what it was that we were _doing_. Were we talking about business? Just killing time, walking together by matter of circumstance? Or was this one of the ones where we’d found each other on purpose just to find each other? …We must have been talking about something, but I can’t remember what we were saying anymore. Mostly, I remember… I’m pretty sure, no-- I’m definitely sure we were by water, yes, and a-- a bit of a steep incline,” he starts, ramblingly and uncertain.

“What you’re saying is that in this memory, you don’t remember anything,” Anathema quips.

“Shut up, I haven’t gotten to the point yet,” Crowley defends. “The point is that I stepped too close to the edge of the path. I slipped over the side,” he says. “Or I would have, but Aziraphale… caught me. He grabbed my hand and just… pulled me back up.”

Anathema nods, beginning to understand where he’s going.

“It’s just that I-- I can’t remember the rest of the _day_ , from that point on, Crowley sort of half-laughs, half-chokes. “Everything else instantly became a meaningless blur to me. _Immediately_ , I couldn’t help myself from overanalyzing that one simple action.”

“That he held your hand?” Anathema half-jokes.

“No, that he would catch me as I fell,” Crowley says, rendering them both quiet for a little while, as Anathema digests the symbolism of it all, as Crowley relives the experience for an excruciating heartbeat of a moment.

Crowley begins again, “It’s just that… to Aziraphale, it must have been the natural course of action, it must have been one of many simple kindnesses second nature to him. It must have been reflex. It must have been nothing,” he says. “I mean… To him, it must have just been a simple, insignificant moment. It’s just that I wonder if Aziraphale remembers it,” he says, “because I do. Because I can’t… stop… thinking about it.”

This is about to be an important event.

Crowley likes humans. They’re clever and witty and inventive, they’re capable of tremendous evil and selfless kindness in one. But in many ways, they can be predictable, and they don’t always _get_ it, so to speak. The anticipated answer, in so much that Crowley was expecting _anything_ from her, would have been first something simple and surface-deep as “oh, I’m sure he does remember it.” Anathema is perhaps brighter than most, so the second option, the more tolerable answer might have been that such a memory shouldn’t be called insignificant if it meant so much to him.

But there’s a third option.

“You… wanted to be there for him,” Anathema says quietly. “When you Fell from Heaven, you were alone, and… maybe somewhere along the line, you started thinking, maybe it would have hurt less if Aziraphale had been your friend at that point, if someone had _been_ there for you. I don’t know. This time, you saw him Falling, alone, and… you wanted to be the one to catch him, didn’t you? But there was nothing you could do.”

And it hurts, it cuts him to the bone.

“Yeah,” he croaks eventually, tired, shoulders shaking with relief at the mortifying ordeal of being understood.

He doesn't know it yet-- he couldn’t possibly have predicted it-- but this is the moment he’ll look back on when he realizes that somewhere along the line he had filed Anathema away in his head under the very, very short list of beings he could call ‘friend’. At any rate, though, time moves forward. The clouds grow darker, threatening to rain.

“What brought you here today, anyway?” Crowley eventually gets around to asking. “To this park? In this area at all?”

“I don’t know. Like I said, I’d been looking for you for a long time. When I woke up this morning, I could just _feel_ it-- today was the day,” Anathema says confidently, but then, somewhat quietly amends, “also my bike got a flat tire, so I came over here to hang out until Newt could come pick me up after work.”

“…Are you _sure_ your bike doesn’t hate you, personally?” Crowley asks in disbelief, and Anathema just scowls.

“If you’re implying something about the dependability of my bike, considering that _you_ were the one who h--”

Crowley waves a hand dismissively. “Let me fix it.”

“I-- I wouldn’t ask you to do that. It’s fine. Newt’s already on his way, so it’s…”

“No, really, I insist,” Crowley says anyway. “It’ll take me all of one second. Besides, I’m an angel now or whatever, remember? I’m _supposed_ to be down here helping people. That’s what we do.”

“Ah, so that’s what you were doing here today, whilst sulking in a park alone,” Anathema remarks sarcastically, but she caves anyway and starts leading the way to where she had dragged her bike and then promptly abandoned it upon seeing him.

“I _am_ here for a reason!” Crowley defends. “They got tired of me, so they put me on _field work,_ and fine, sure-- I’m good at that, but don’t think I don’t know they just wanted to get me out of their hair for a few godforsaken hours.” He glances up. “I’m performing a miracle, I was just early. Some idiot human’s about to not die in a gruesome wreck today because some other angels said so.”

“If you say so,” Anathema says skeptically, hauling her bike into an upright position. Crowley snaps, and it’s back to normal. “Thank you. For fixing my bike, I mean, but also for talking to me today. I had a nice time.”

Crowley just shrugs, so she continues, “this Saturday, Adam and the Them are coming over to my place for tea. They’re usually gone by around three o’clock if you’re in the area and want to swing by to, I don’t know, catch up some more?” She offers.

Crowley is in the middle of mumbling something vague and noncommittal that inevitably means yes when a bird caws, urgently this time, and the first drop of rain falls.

“Actually, that’s my cue,” Crowley says, raises his hand, and snaps again.

A car horn blares, close enough by that Anathema covers her ears. There’s the sound of rubber screeching against pavement, and swinging wildly around the corner is none other than Newton Pulsifer’s robin’s egg blue car, miraculously unscathed. 

Anathema and Crowley exchange a long look as they process the gravity of the situation.

“…Thanks for saving my boyfriend’s life,” Anathema says in a shaky voice as Newt hops out of the car and strides toward them unsteadily.

“Anytime,” Crowley echoes in shock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Crowley? Oversharing? It’s more likely than you think. Free pc check 
> 
> Sorry this chapter is later than I anticipated! I started my new job in between chapters 2 and 3, and while I’m pretty psyched about that it does unfortunately leave me with considerably less Writing Time™. You know how it is. 
> 
> Regarding the timeframe, in the last episode, it is mentioned that Adam "Feels something coming to an end-- not the world, but just the summer", so I figured that the last canon events in the show probably happened sometime around late august, which is why I chose July for the time. Also, in case anyone is confused as to why Crowley doesn't know the bookshop was repaired: since they didn't do their bodyswap switcheroo in this, there was no reason to have Crowley-in-Aziraphale's-body go visit the shop. 
> 
> I don’t strictly speaking _know_ if Crowley and Anathema would have reasonably known each other’s names at this point as far as canon is concerned but this scene would have been way clunkier if they had to entirely re-introduce themselves ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯. Same to the fact that I decided to give heaven/hell rooms as in the first section of this chapter. It serves me for the plot, so ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ again. there is no god here. only me
> 
> Today’s edgy lyric chapter title of the day is from What You Want by Evanescence. I’ll shoot for having chapter 4 up in somewhere between 1 - 2 weeks. Thank you all so much for reading, and see you next time.


	4. find me innocent but still I serve my time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning for mentions of violence throughout and for brief mention of homophobia.

Beelzebub is the only one who will tell him the date, is something Aziraphale notices.

Dagon, who would appear to be in charge of keeping things generally in order and who is generally the go-to on matters of paperwork, would presumably _know_ what day it is in the mortal realm, Aziraphale thinks. But Dagon does not happen to like him much, and nor does Hastur, for that matter. That said, if he were to ask either for the date, Hastur would generally tell him to fuck off, and Dagon liked to give vague answers that were honestly much more obtuse than he had the patience for. “It’s been thirty eight days since the last time you asked me,” Dagon would say. Cool. As though he had even the slightest recollection of when _that_ was. (Ask any other demon and, he found, they would simply tell you they didn’t know, or care.)

This is a fact that would not appear to be tremendously important, at least at first glance. But, either way, at least Beelzebub would afford him a normal, straightforward answer, which was and still is leaps and bounds more reliable than literally every other sentient entity Aziraphale has had the misfortune of interacting with during his time in Hell thus forth. If ze didn’t happen to know it when he asked, even, ze would usually leave a slightly smudged sticky note with the date scribbled down posted on his door sometime later for him to find. And being that he has not seen the miserable light of day even once since he first Fell, this is the only way he even has of marking the passage of days, which, consequently, is the only thing keeping him fucking sane.

The demons are restless, see; all is not well in Hell, although it never is. It’s this sense of _well, Armageddon didn’t happen, so what now?_ And what, indeed, ever? Before, both Heaven and Hell were working towards some sort of _goal_ , at least. For now they toil away as they ever have, as it’s all they know to do, but, well. Six thousand years-- that’s a long time. Eternity, though? It’s inconceivable, by nature, and now they are working towards an endless uncertainty with no end in sight, ever. 

And Aziraphale, of course, is to blame for it.

He knows now the feeling of having one’s skull slammed against sticky linoleum, how it felt to be locked in a damp spider-infested broom closet for days to weeks on end until Beelzebub finally thought to go looking for him, among other things. To say that they are restless, that might be an understatement. They are certainly bitter, angry, spiteful, certainly sadistic, certainly _demons_. They are not kind. They are not forgiving, and they do not like him. They do not leave rude notes. It’s not like that all the time-- not even like that most of the time, anymore-- but he has gotten used to it regardless, and it’s fine, really, it’s fine, fine, fine. It’s whatever. It’s not so new.

He gets the sense, distinctly, that beyond dislike of being directionless for now, they will not, and cannot, tolerate an eternity more like this. He gets the sense that they are simply biding their time until a new plan is formed. Aziraphale is just the unfortunate victim of their stress in the interim, or so he thinks, so he tries not to take it personally.

That is, for the most part, the only of them all who holds a particular and notable personal vendetta against him is Hastur, for reasons unknown to Aziraphale, who always looks at him in that specific way that means _given the slightest hint of an opportunity, I would rend you from existence in the most horrendous way metaphysically possible._ This is highly unfortunate for Aziraphale, given that for most of his days down here it’s him and Dagon who are in charge of him.

Mostly, his work down in Hell has so far consisted of Hastur and Dagon using him as a pawn to play elaborate games with each other whose rules are always shifting, and the goal of which is always to make Aziraphale’s life suck more. Their favorite methods include:

\- Hastur telling him to perform a task which will require him to seek clarification from Dagon, who will instead send him to Hastur, who will send him back to Dagon, who will tell him she is busy and to come back later, and then leaving him waiting long enough that Hastur gets to yell and scream at Aziraphale for being a failure.  
\- One of them instructing him on how to do a job, but giving him intentionally wrong directions so that his efforts will be in vain, which will of course invite the wrath of the other.  
\- No one telling him what he is supposed to be doing, but both of them getting mad at him when he doesn’t, somehow, do it anyway.  
\- Wasting his time by using him to play telephone with each other, sending him back and forth with ultimately meaningless messages ad nauseum.

Speaking of being asked to deliver dumb messages, they also like to use him as a messenger for news that no one wants to hear, which, predictably, has landed him in a number of demons’ bad books already and gotten him into trouble more than once. See today’s example: the maintenance man.

Hastur had sent him at one point to speak to the maintenance man about a nasty leak in some dark corridor that was bad enough that an annoyingly significant amount of the demons’ (and upon occasion, Aziraphale’s) time and energy had to be spent trying to prevent the entire thing from being submerged under several feet of slimy water. Of course, daring to speak even one word to the man on the subject caused him to immediately fly off the handle.

“I know about the bloody Satan-forsaken leak!” He had barked, shaking Aziraphale by the lapels of his coat. “What in the nine blasted circles of Hell made you think I don’t know about the leak!? What do you think you’re doing down here, pestering me about something as trivial as--”

“Hastur said t--”

“I don’t give a rat’s ass about what Hastur said!” The maintenance man had snapped; Aziraphale had bitten the side of his tongue to keep himself from scolding him over his language choices, because that certainly would not have helped, and things had just sort of gone downhill from there. He’s pretty sure the maintenance man had berated him on the subject of “how could any demon be stupid enough to bother me like this, you’ve had six thousand years to learn not to try my patience, where have you _been_ ,” at which point Aziraphale had quipped something like “I’m not a demon, I’m an angel; I’ve been in _Heaven_ for six thousand years, which, coincidentally, is where I belong,” at which point the maintenance man had dragged him by the arm all the way to Beelzebub’s office for the absolutely heinous crime of ‘mouthing off’, also known as saying words that are true which no one wants to hear.

“Lord Beelzebub, this demon--”

“There you are, Aziraphale,” Beelzebub cut him off without a thought. “I wanted to ask you t…”

“Er, Lord Beelzebub,” the maintenance man tried again. “I’ve brought this demon to you because he--”

“I’m not a demon,” Aziraphale had interjected.

“ _See?_ This little _brat_ has--”

“If you think I care about what you have to say, you are so _woefully_ mistaken,” Beelzebub said. “Do yourself a favor and get out of my sight.”

The maintenance man had looked with incredulous outrage between Beelzebub and Aziraphale for one more beat before he had turned tail and quietly slinked away from the doorway. This was moments ago, and now Aziraphale is left wondering if perhaps he, too, ought to beat a hasty retreat before Beelzebub finally clears zir throat.

“… _Anyway,_ ” ze says, scribbling one more thing down on zir clipboard before dumping it onto the nearest surface, “I’m going up to the surface to do fieldwork. Come with?”

“To the mortal realm?”

Aziraphale thinks only of sunlight, and immediately nods.

“Alright,” he agrees too quickly.

He does not catch the way Beelzebub turns zir head away sharply to hide zir face at that moment, and nor yet does he process the implications of zir request.

Instead, he just follows zir lead, out of the office, through the winding halls, meandering through rooms and up decrepit stairwells. They pass Dagon and Hastur on their way out, who sort of stare after him like, _how dare you find something better to do with your time than follow our miserable instructions?_ And he’s sort of smug about it for a moment.

It does take him until he and Beelzebub are weaving through streams of pedestrians of an unfamiliar area and waiting for traffic and the brutal brightness of the summer sun stops searing the inside of his unaccustomed eyeballs that he stops to consider that fieldwork probably means he has to do Demon Activities.

“…Where are we going?” Aziraphale finally asks, wary, as apprehension finally begins to tug at him.

Beelzebub looks over zir shoulder at him like ze has half a mind to turn around and dump him back in Hell if he starts complaining. He also notes that, on the surface, ze has at least chosen to forego the demonic pustulence and swarm of buzzing flies-- which is probably for the best, that zir face appear at least mildly presentable among fainthearted humans. But it makes Aziraphale’s hand go to his own cheek, where his fingers still find the edge of the bandage.

See, other than what’s already been covered, there are more or less two things of note which have happened to him during his time in Hell. The first goes in hand with the observation that most-- perhaps not all, but most-- of the demons he’s met in Hell have some sort of foul or ill-omened creature associated with them: Beelzebub and flies, Hastur and frogs, so on. (Even dear Crowley, a serpent.) By this point Aziraphale has been assigned one of his own, but he would prefer not to think of it unless he must, so he won’t. The second is that his wounds do not appear to heal.

By his count, according to the dated sticky notes he keeps lined up on the inside of his door, it’s been at least a good six or seven months since he obtained this one. This he had earned by getting too irritable and mouthing off to Beelzebub, whose ragged fingernail caught on his left cheek in a swift slap, drawing a somber line of a scrape under his eye. And it hasn’t gotten any _worse,_ is the thing.

It just won’t go away, and it won’t get any _better_ , so he has it covered up with a black plastic bandaid. So it has been for months.

“We’re going to be attending a protest,” Beelzebub says, drawing him back into the present.

“A protest?” Aziraphale echoes as he quickens his pace to keep up with zir, who moves through the cluttered streets with a more well-rehearsed ease than he, rusty as he is.

“I won’t ask you to do anything too difficult,” Beelzebub says, which only makes Aziraphale even more nervous than he had already been.

“Why would _you_ want to go to something like that?” Aziraphale ventures uneasily.

He sees them now, a couple streets away; they are packed together with their banners and their signs, none of them readable from his vantage yet.

“Does your old side favor protests?” Beelzebub asks suddenly, and that’s a trick question, because, well, _sort of?_ But if he says no, ze’ll launch into a lecture about how _corrupt and authoritarian_ Heaven is, and if he says yes, ze will rightfully ask: then why ever cast us out? Then why are you here?

“I don’t know how to answer that question,” Aziraphale says.

“Best that you don’t.”

They half-push their way through the crowd into the heart of it, and the sound of traffic blaring and humans babbling grates together.

“Why are you here?” Aziraphale presses again. “What are you plotting? Or do you mean to tell me you’ve come out of sympathy for their cause, whatever it is?”

“Sympathy, not in the slightest.” Beelzebub’s eyes sweep over the crowd. “These humans… are protesting over some corrupt and exploitative laws regarding work and business practices that are being set into place. Should things continue on the path that they are on, many of them may lose their jobs, or be forced to work under yet more grueling conditions, for less pay. Some won’t be able to pay their bills anymore, but of course, their big company itself is quite pleased with the development.” Ze says it in a way that sort of means _it’s_ _more than that, there is a history here unexplained, but we don’t have time for that._

“…That would appear to be an important enough cause,” Aziraphale mumbles, because he doesn’t see where Beelzebub fits into this crowd.

“Certainly so,” ze agrees. “Really, they do stand a chance to change things, futile as it seems. A good cause, indeed-- why, it would be a shame if something were to _happen_ to them, wouldn’t it?”

“You’re going to kill them?!”

“What?? No, I’ve no need to resort to such clumsy methods,” ze scoffs. “It’s just a matter of… dialing up the tension, you could say,” and he feels something shift, hears the low buzzing of the gathered ones begin to pick up volume. “Pity if this peaceful protest were to get a little out of hand,” ze murmurs, “what a shame it would be if these poor frazzled souls succumbed to wrath, discredited their own cause…”

The pieces of the puzzle fall into place.

He feels it now, like a thrumming just under the skin, throbbing faintly beneath the soles of his feet: Beelzebub’s influence, snaking its way through the crowd, red veins of dissent.

“You’re pushing them to violence,” Aziraphale’s voice lowers to a furious whisper.

“A simple trick, really,” Beelzebub agrees. “After all, we do so approve of corporate greed downstairs, don’t we? Couldn’t have these pathetic worms actually changing things for the better, now.”

“And my part in this is--?”

“I’m not asking anything of you.” Their voices rise in furious chant, someone pushes roughly by him. Oh, that’s not true, Aziraphale realizes. He is beginning to perceive the nature of this game.

“This is-- this is taking away their free will,” Aziraphale argues. “This is too much, you can’t--“

“It’s not _my_ fault that humans desire to push back with violence and outrage,” Beelzebub spreads zir hands, and Aziraphale senses it, the threads of chaos ze is tugging on in the minds of the mortals. “They’re furious. It’s unfair. People are going to be hurt, and it’s human nature to want one’s tormentors to hurt the way you do.”

“That’s not an excuse!”

“I’m just giving them what they already wanted!”

“It doesn’t _matter_ what you _think_ they wanted! Even if that’s the case, it’s not what you _think_ that determines what you are--“

“It’s what you do, I know!” Beelzebub retorts, and there’s yelling somewhere beyond them now, and everything is suddenly too loud, too loud. “So what? We’re demons! We don’t play fair!”

And that’s all well and bad, but the fact of the matter is that Aziraphale is a demon unfortunate enough to possess of a conscience. Picture this: an ant-like gathering of resolute humans beneath the sweltering August’s mid-afternoon sun, come together against the face of corruption, fighting for their tiny voices to be heard, tiny voices being manipulated like puppets dancing to the whims of an unseen master. Amidst it all, the fingers of an occult being curl harshly into the arm of his boss, and he drags zir away from the crowd with a stride quick enough to outpace his own trepidation, for now.

This time, against the odds and despite the malevolent interference, everybody gets out safely. For once, the good guys will win this battle-- for once, not everything that could have gone wrong came to pass, almost by miracle. Aziraphale doesn’t see that far, though, all the way to the outcome.

He just sees the shaky road ahead, people swiftly stepping out of the way of his overdetermined gait when they see the intensity of his expression. He does not look back into the face of the devil behind him, but he hears zir footsteps, and feels zir pulse under the sharpness of his grip, and no one says anything until he realizes that he’s trying to go home but he doesn’t know the road to Hell and he’s only bound to get them lost.

“This way,” he hears from behind him, and a tug at his wrist diverts him from his aimless path, through increasingly narrow and dismal alleyways, through the back entrance of an abandoned warehouse, down a dark, cold stairway that gets them to where they’re going. There are many entrances to Heaven and Hell, and ze knows all of the latter ones by heavy, blackened heart.

They don’t speak again until they make it back to Beelzebub’s office, the door shutting heavily behind them.

“That was a reckless choice, what you just did,” Beelzebub says with zir back to him. Aziraphale’s eyes are on the floor.

“I know.”

“You understand that I’m… tremendously disappointed, although not all that surprised.”

“I understand.”

“Had I not such high hopes that you could be yet salvaged, you might be facing grave punishment for your poor performance today,” Beelzebub says, voice low and controlled. “Not to mention for laying a hand on your superior.”

“I don’t think I very well could have gotten away with that if you’d really wanted to stop me,” Aziraphale points out hesitantly, bracing for a blow that won’t come this time. “You could almost certainly have overpowered me. Or at least _resisted._ I couldn’t have dragged you away if you weren’t willing to move, isn’t that so?”

“Does it seem incomprehensible to you?” Beelzebub turns to face him, and Aziraphale with reluctance drags his eyes up to at least fake meeting zirs.

“…It does, I must admit,” Aziraphale agrees.

“Best that it does, then,” Beelzebub says quietly.

They lapse into silence for a moment.

“Am I in trouble?” Aziraphale ventures warily.

“No,” Beelzebub says. “Not this time. I should have known.” Ze shakes zir head. “I didn’t even ask anything of you.”

“Yes, you did. You asked me to be a bystander, don’t think I didn’t see that much. To do nothing would have been a worse sin than whatever you could have schemed up.”

Beelzebub’s gaze turns sharp, but in the way that says less so _stop talking if you know what’s good for you_ and more _I wish you hadn’t caught that._ It gives him the strength to hold his head up a little higher, at least. “You weren’t even so much _tempting_ them into wrath so much as dragging them face-first into it,” Aziraphale goes on, already wishing he’d shut up but unable to not voice his objections. “They were doing nothing to invite the interference of demons, why, they were minding their own business! It’s not against the law just to protest--”

“Don’t _talk_ to me about the law,” Beelzebub snaps. “I don’t care what their meaningless little laws say, it’s no concern of mine.”

“But they’re not meaningless. Not to them.”

“Yeah? And you use _laws_ and _rules_ as an indicator of morality when they’re not,” Beelzebub retorts.

“Well, they’re not too horrible a place to start!” Aziraphale snips.

“Of course you would say that!” Beelzebub throws zir hands up in frustration. “You still think you’re an angel!”

“I _am!_ ” Aziraphale insists, heart leaping up into his throat.

“Say it as many times as you want, it won’t change the fact that you’ve Fallen now just like the rest of us!” Beelzebub cries. “What the _hell_ is wrong with you? Does lying to yourself help you to slog through this blasted eternal nothingness better? Fine, then! But I won’t let you keep your baseless moral superiority with it!”

“What on _earth_ is that supposed to mean??”

“ _Look_ ,” Beelzebub says. “You-- you like books or whatever, don’t you? Aren’t you against censorship? Do you think it’s fine for the government to ban books? Do you think the law should get to dictate what you can and can’t read?” Ze holds up a hand to silence him before he starts protesting. “It’s been illegal to be gay for big chunks of mortal history. Still is, in some places! Do you think that’s fine, then?? Do you really think we have all the gays locked up here in Hell just because, what, the law says so?? Not to _mention_ what they based _that_ idiocy on! Tell me, do you find that acceptable? Do you really feel that way, or are you just too afraid to feel any way else??”

Aziraphale doesn’t say anything.

Having been an angel for most of six thousand years now, Aziraphale was already well-used to the fact that the rules aren’t always fair and just. It’s just that, being an angel, one had to swallow that down and carry it in lock-and-key-silence, had to follow the orders laid out without asking too many questions, lest they end up Falling. Like many other things, Aziraphale has coped largely by refusing to stare it directly in the face and acknowledge how bad it actually was, stubbornly choosing not to think too hard on things that went against his celestial programming. Beelzebub was asking him to look directly into the eyes of just some of the truths that he’d spent millennia performing wild mental gymnastics around for the sake of not looking at, and that was something he couldn’t, or wouldn’t, do.

“Forget it,” Beelzebub mumbles at length, upon seeing the sort of _if one more thing happens today I’m going to snap_ look in Aziraphale’s wild eyes. “Just… go. You’re not in trouble. Not today.”

Aziraphale stands deer-in-headlights still, not quite meeting zir eyes, mouth slightly open but saying nothing. 

“I said, get out of my office. Go bother Hastur, go piss off the maintenance man, go sulk in your room, I don’t care. Get out of my hair, for Satan’s sake,” Beelzebub sighs.

* * *

Later, whilst Hell’s prince is killing time staring blankly at a sheet of undone paperwork, the Lord of the Files surreptitiously lets herself into zir office.

“Lord Beelzebub,” Dagon says quietly, “might I get a word with you?”

“Of course,” Beelzebub mumbles.

Dagon approaches zir desk with her hands folded behind her back. “I wanted to speak to you about the demon Aziraphale.”

“What about him do you wish to discuss?” Ze asks warily.

She pauses for a moment. “His, uh, progress thus forth certainly… leaves something to be desired.”

“It could be worse.”

“That is, perhaps, my point, sir. Rather, that things could be worse for _him_.”

Beelzebub looks up at her, eyebrows pinched together. “What do you mean by that?”

“It’s just that… well, I couldn’t help but over hear parts of your earlier… argument,” Dagon says. Beelzebub’s expression sours. “I’m… Confused, I suppose, as to how such a lackluster demon as Aziraphale would dare to raise its voice against you, sir, especially after an apparent failure. And, going back even further, I still can’t help but feel as though the creature chosen for his demonic aspect might have been a little bit, uh… generous? Would it not have been more befitting to assign him something more, I don’t know… grotesque? Something to make him squirm? Something to wear on his spirit?”

“I’ve already spoken with you about this, Dagon,” Beelzebub warns gently. “I understand your concerns. But I know what I’m doing. None of this is an accident; everything is planned. Now, if this is all you’ve come to me for, you’re welcome to take your leave.”

“As you say, sir,” Dagon agrees with only a faint trace of uncertainty, content for now to watch and see how the situation is to pan out.

After all, Beelzebub is indeed a clever creature, and zirs is a game well-plotted. Every step up until now has been a measured one. This one, too: while not the best-case scenario, Beelzebub had already accounted for the outcome received, and ze knows better now where ze stands in going forward. Ze has far from run out of tricks up zir sleeve. So calculated was this one step that to say it took months upon months to set into motion at all would be an understatement.

Aziraphale had not asked Beelzebub for the date today, but if he had, he would have learned that it had been exactly two years to the date since his Fall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A popular reaction to the previous chapter went along the lines of “wow, a whole year huh? I hope Aziraphale’s been doing okay.” Well! :) what can I say. Except that everything is so definitely planned. 
> 
> I’d decided that Heaven kept Crowley under lock and key for a year while Hell kept Aziraphale for two early on. However… I largely started daydreaming up this whole shebang because I liked Aziraphale quite a bit and I wanted to write something kinda angst with him, as one does, so it would be fair to say it started out as projection that grew a humongous plot that spiraled way away from me. _Somehow_ , I forgot even that much amidst the taming of the plot tangle, and only realized fairly recently that I had unwittingly executed the sickest self-drag of the story thus forth by choosing 2 years for Aziraphale. (Turns out that’s actually a deeply personal number for me specifically. :/ )
> 
> Apologies for the lateness of this chapter. The protest scene really just spectacularly did not want to exist, and eventually I realized I’d have to stop nitpicking it if I wanted to ever get it over and done with. I really had fun writing Beelzebub in this one though? Ze came out kinda anarchist somehow, but given the mock court scene from ep6 with the body swap shenanigans, it’s probably fair enough to interpret that as Beelzebub thinking the law is a joke. 
> 
> At any rate, the next chapter should in theory be both shorter and less tricky to write. ALSO, chapter 5 is going to be when Crowley and Aziraphale finally get to see each other again. I’ve been… setting up a lot of parallels and compare-and-contrast moments in these chapters, lots of intentional language choice and laying down things I’m going to need later on. I’m really excited for this story, and I hope you still are, too. 
> 
> Chapter 4’s edgy lyric chapter title of the day is from “Bones” by Natewantstobattle-- a song my sibling showed me just last Friday, just in time for this chapter. See you next time.


	5. I need a new partner in crime and you’re shotgun (jet black crow droning on and on)

He knew he would have to confront it someday, eventually-- it’s just that today happens to be that day, and he rather wishes that it wasn’t.

But there it stands, austere and dark: the bookshop, unharmed. So Anathema was right. He does not know why this doesn’t quite comfort him.

She is standing beside him still, as promised, though. It’d been… a year, he supposes, since he’d started meeting her for tea and for talk regularly. That’s also as much time since he learned that the shop made it through the apocalypse, which is to say: he has been actively avoiding this area for an entire year. Why? It’s hard to put into words. It was one of those things that to think of inevitably avalanched into other, yet even more difficult thoughts, one of those memories that never quite burned all the way down to ashes, the heat of which was still too much to bear. So he just sort of didn’t do anything about it.

Anathema, however, was unfortunately smarter than him, and said: _you might feel better if you got some closure._ He had replied, _you might be right, but fuck you._

(And that’s the story of how she picked out this date a solid four or five months in advance, and how he had plenty of time to prepare for it and just didn’t, because he is a fool of a snake and will never learn.)

“Well,” Anathema finally starts, but doesn’t finish.

“Well, what?”

“I think that’s up to you, now,” Anathema says.

Crowley looks into the dark windows of the bookshop, and pictures it alight and cast in molten hues.

“It’s… surreal,” he admits. “Seeing it standing.” On some level, he had been fully expecting it not to be.

“You’ve told me that it’d burned down. My guess is that this is Adam’s doing,” she says. “He probably brought it back into existence when he stopped Armageddon.”

“You’re probably right,” Crowley says.

“What… happened to it?” Anathema asks. “Do you know what started the fire?”

Crowley regards the building silently for another moment. “No, I don’t,” he mumbles. “I wasn’t there. All I know is that by the time I’d gotten there, Aziraphale was already gone.”

And he would never be back, Crowley thinks, not to the bookshop. Books and no angel-- that’s not the way it ought to be. He shakes his head.

“I’d thought he was gone forever,” Crowley admits. “I-- I could just feel it. I knew he had disappeared… I could tell he wasn’t anywhere on earth, just like that-- like a candle being snuffed out. There one second, gone the next.” _I thought Heaven had destroyed him,_ Crowley doesn’t say. _I thought they’d killed him in retaliation of our Arrangement._

 _I thought he’d died and it was my fault_ , Crowley doesn’t say, because that’s not really something he wants on Anathema’s shoulders. The look in her eyes, though, makes him fear he doesn’t even need to say it.

“And you haven’t seen him since?” Anathema finally asks.

“Well-- no. I mean, sort of. This all happened _before_ we stopped the world from ending, actually. Since the shop burning, then, yes, I got to see him again. In the time that I’ve known you, though… no, I haven’t.”

She just nods solemnly. There’s something about her posture that’s off, there’s a troubled flicker behind her eyes that he doesn’t understand yet. There are gears turning that he’s not going to get to see, as like him, she doesn’t want this on his shoulders, either.

“Are you okay?” Anathema asks at length.

“I’m not entirely sure how to answer that.”

“…That’s valid.”

She looks over her shoulder, up towards the colorless sky.

“I’m sorry,” she says.

Crowley turns to look at her. “What on earth are you sorry for?”

“I-- I don’t know. It just must be hard. You don’t even know if he’s okay, do you?” She says.

Crowley considers the question for a moment.

“I can’t sense him,” he says eventually. “I haven’t been able to ever since the day we were separated. Theoretically, I’ve been told he’s in Hell. Beyond that, though, I don’t know… anything, I don’t know where he is, I don’t know what he’s doing-- I don’t know that he’s alright, no. He could be locked up, could be facing some sort of eternal punishment. Hell, I can’t even prove that he’s still _alive_ , really. I wouldn’t necessarily put it past them to do that just out of spite.” Crowley shakes his head. “But I have faith,” he says a little quietly. “Maybe not in God. But in Aziraphale, always.”

That’s the hard part, isn’t it? Because it would be fair to say that on at least some level he _has_ always had faith in Aziraphale-- even when he had none in anything else-- but this isn’t that. Because Aziraphale had always been _around_.

Before it was more about character, about being there when it counted, his faith was more about Aziraphale choosing Crowley against the odds when push came to shove. That was more about the knowledge that they would always, always be friends. And he _knew_ Aziraphale-- probably better than he knew himself-- so he had evidence to back up his belief, he had reason to think that Aziraphale would come through.

But this is blind. There is no reason to think that the universe wouldn’t do this to him. There’s just Crowley, believing to himself in the dark.

“That’s rather sweet,” Anathema murmurs finally.

“I suppose so,” Crowley agrees faintly. He doesn’t know if he would call it that.

They lapse into silence for a few minutes as they inspect the exterior of the shop from one side to the other. This probably has the unintended effect of making them look like creepy wannabe book-burglars to any passersby, but Crowley doesn’t have the energy to care right now.

“Do you have a key to the store?” Anathema asks.

“A key? No.” Crowley glances to the entrance. “But the doors would open for me if I wanted them to.”

“Do you?”

“What?”

“Do you want to go in?” Anathema suggests tentatively.

Crowley thinks on that for a moment, but he shakes his head. “Not this time,” he says. “Seeing it will have to do for now.” He doesn’t know if he can bear to be there without him. 

“I understand.”

Then they make their way around to the back of the shop, and this is actually sort of the fun part, because there it is-- Crowley’s Bentley, parked out back, miraculously unharmed and waiting ever so patiently for him. (“You’re lucky no one’s broken into it by this point,” Anathema teases. Crowley just lifts his head indignantly and retorts, “no idiot would dare to even try!”)

“Take me home?” Anathema says, plunking down into the passenger’s seat without so much as asking. Crowley briefly considers objecting on the grounds that the passenger’s seat is usually reserved for Aziraphale, but, he thinks, he probably owes her for this. So he lets it slide this time.

It’s not until they’re halfway back to Jasmine Cottage that Crowley finally breathes deep and says, “thanks.”

“What for?” She asks.

“I dunno. Everything, I guess. For coming with me. For caring.”

Anathema looks over at him with an expression he doesn’t quite place. “Anytime,” she tells him sincerely. “Glad I could be of help.”

( _If only there were more I could do_ , she doesn’t say.)

* * *

He’d ended up just driving around aimlessly for what must have been hours after dropping Anathema off, just exploring old roads and playing his old songs and trying not to think of it as borrowing time. He’ll have to go back eventually, he knows. To Heaven, of course, to explain his fruitless absence-- or maybe he won’t, because they won’t ask, and they won’t care, but that might nearly be worse. For now, though, he finds himself, as it seems he often does, at a park.

That’s right, he’d gotten out to stretch his legs, hadn’t he? But then somehow he had failed to muster up the energy to turn around and go back, get back into the Bentley, and continue pretending he isn’t, on some level, lost. But that’s alright, he thinks. He supposes it’s fine to just exist quietly for a moment. It’s not like he hasn’t earned it. 

Yes, he’s sitting sprawled out on a park bench in the cool evening air, appreciating the pale warmth of the not-quite-setting sun’s rays when he feels it. It’s a vague sense of something like premonition, a prickling that starts at the base of his spine and doesn’t make it all the way up before a solitary bird bursts through the leaves of the nearby tree and sticks the most spectacularly clumsy landing possible, coming to a skittering halt roughly right in front of Crowley’s feet: a crow, bearing one feather of no pigment, which limps awkwardly up to the side of the bench and caws.

And he just sort of Knows, really.

“ _Aziraphale?_ Is that you?? Why on _earth_ are you a bird?”

The crow caws at him plaintively.

Then, because he sort of psyches himself out, Crowley says, “wait-- how do I know I’m not just-- anthropomorphisizing some random crow? …Caw three times if you’re really Aziraphale.”

The crow just glares at him for a moment, glarefully, but it complies.

Crowley laughs for a moment out of the sheer absurdity. “Well-- ha ha ha, look at you!! I’ve always thought of you as a little bit more of a dove, or perhaps a pigeon, really? But I suppose that doesn’t really fit their aesthetic, does it?” He half-coos, half-teases, but the crow doesn’t answer him in any humanly decipherable way. He stops smiling and says, “you can’t speak, can you? You haven’t figured it out yet?” And the crow dips its head.

“This is your first time being… not person-shaped, huh?” Crowley guesses, to which it caws in agreement.

“A bird,” Crowley mumbles. “Alright. Cool. My best friend is a bird now. That’s-- this may as well happen.”

The crow glares at him in a way that he thinks probably means _it’s not funny, Crowley, I’m literally nine inches tall right now._

“Can you… can you change back? Are you able to--” he starts, but the crow just begins cawing frantically. “Okay, okay, okay! I think I’m going to interpret that as a hard ‘no’.” Crowley sighs. “You don’t remember how to change back. I-- okay, I get it. I’ve done the same thing.”

And if there’s one thing he knows about the ordeal, it’s that the more frightened you get, the harder it becomes, and the easier it is to spiral out of control. His heart hurts to imagine Aziraphale in the same position.

“At least I’m here,” he says softly, mostly to himself. “Just-- it’s okay, angel, it’s okay. Come here, okay?” He reaches a hand out towards the crow, which hauls itself up awkwardly to perch on his wrist and it trills a little miserably. “You’re gonna be just fine,” he reassures quietly. “Don’t worry too much for now, focusing on how freaked out you are’s gonna get you nowhere fast. You’re going to be alright, believe me.”

The bird looks up at him, its pale eyes bright with worry and trust, and his heart does a funny little thing in his chest. “I’m glad you’re here,” he says softly. “Oh, Aziraphale, I’ve missed you so much. It’s been too long. I-- I know, I mean, s’not like we’ve never been apart for this long before but I just mean this is kind of not the same thing as-- I guess two years isn’t really all that long in the grand scheme of things but _seriously_ these’ve been the longest two years of-- okay, maybe not _the_ longest, but definitely a contender, I just-- I just,” he trails off. This is, uh, not helping.

He takes a deep breath.

“Do you remember Anathema Device? Book girl?” Crowley asks. “Well, we’re friends now. Did you know that?”

The bird cocks its head to the side in interest.

He can’t help but smile at that. “You and I have a lot to catch up on,” Crowley says warmly, nervousness dissipating from his chest. “Yeah, I’ve, uh… I’ve been dying to tell you all about it.”

The story he ends up telling isn’t exactly coherent or concise, but it certainly is from the heart. Actually, maybe calling it a ‘story’ at all is generous. Crowley basically just opens his mouth and says anything and everything that comes to mind, weaving a meandering path through two years’ worth of half-lived life without him. It’s as if each of these moments he ramblingly details had transpired solely to be overexplained to him as the sun slowly sinks behind the evening’s clouds. He might not be able to set everything back to normal for him, but getting his mind off the panicking-- that’s something he can do. Yes, this is no different than the dozens of times over the course of history he’s swooped in at the precise right moment to rescue his angel, he thinks. Except of course that he’s in a park by himself talking to a bird. And that Aziraphale was arguably the one doing the swooping this time. But those are minor, unimportant details.

More important is the _tremendous_ loathing he so dramatically speaks of that smug sonofabitch Gabriel with, the wild, emphatic gesturing he is doing to accompany his story (forcing the hapless crow to relocate from his wrist to the space on the bench beside him so as to avoid being flung into next Tuesday). It’s more in the sort of familiar yet uncertain cadence he speaks of Anathema with, the unspoken _I wish you could’ve been there_ when he recounts their little misadventures from the year. It’s the way his voice gets quiet despite himself when he talks about the way he’s been treated so far in Heaven, it’s how when he speaks of the mundane minor miracle-work he’s tasked with his words are nonchalant but his tone is off, because he already knows he’s not fooling anybody here, bird or not.

 _Specifically,_ it’s about how he cracks a joke at God’s expense and the crow _immediately_ pecks him in the hand.

“Ow!” Crowley quickly withdraws the hand. “Fuck! That actually kind of smarts, you little bastard,” he scolds, but the crow just caws boldly and puffs up its little chest as if to say, _you know what you did!_ And he-- he can’t help it, he starts laughing, he can’t stop laughing. _Oh_ , he thinks to himself, _my darling Aziraphale, don’t you dare ever change._

What’s more important is that, harrowing as the path has been all this long way, here is Aziraphale, exactly as he has ever been after all, all nine inches of bastard he is right now. And that they’re here, together, despite the odds, same as ever. His heart aches with the same fondness it always has. It’s a well-worn, patient thing, and oh, he has truly missed it, it makes his breath catch in his throat. An _I love you_ threatens to drip from his traitorous tongue-- as it always, always does-- but this is only one of hundreds, thousands that have already died on his lips. Not yet, he thinks. Not now.

It wouldn’t be fair to Aziraphale, would it? He can’t speak like this.

Even if Crowley were to swallow down his fear and say, _Aziraphale, I’m so glad you’re here, I’m so glad you’re still you, because I’ve missed you and I love you and I’ve always loved you_ \-- then what?

No, he thinks with soft resignation; that would be a coward’s confession, that would be robbing Aziraphale the chance to respond. Aziraphale couldn’t say in return _I love you too_ , sure, but neither would he be able to say _I love you in that I care for you as a friend,_ or _I don’t feel that way about you,_ or _Crowley, you’re going too fast again, stop, I can’t take it._

Not yet, Crowley thinks as he looks down fondly at the crow, which is now solemnly rubbing its little head against the aggrieved hand as if in apology. Not yet.

This moment is bound to end, as all worthwhile ones are. For a little while longer though he’ll try to drag it out, savor the unassuming quietness, take comfort in the familiarity, altered as they are, and enjoy each other’s company for just a little longer.

Given a few more minutes, though, just when Crowley is starting to think he shouldn’t push it for much longer, the crow hops up onto his shoulder and pecks at the metal side of his sunglasses.

“And just what do you think _you’re_ doing?” Crowley asks, unable to suppress a grin.

The crow caws demandingly and pecks the shiny part of his sunglasses yet again. Of course, Crowley thinks, the bastard wants the fucking sunglasses. Why wouldn’t he.

He _attempts_ to shoot the crow a stern look, but of course, his resolve instantly crumbles into dust. “Oh, why the hell not,” Crowley mutters, exasperatedly fond. He _does_ have an entire glove box full of identical pairs in the Bentley, anyway. He takes them off, and the crow chirps gleefully.

“How exactly do you intend to carry these around?” Crowley asks teasingly. “You didn’t plan for that, did you? Of course not.” He folds them up and says, “I’ll just…”

He shuts his eyes, imagines a safe place for Aziraphale to find them later, and pushes them forward out of reality. There, he thinks, empty-handed and smiling.

* * *

Scarcely a minute after Crowley had departed does Beelzebub finally arrive, limp-stomping with all the rattled dignity of someone who’s just had to walk roughly six whole miles in pursuit of an awol crow.

“Aziraphale, you damn idiot,” Beelzebub breathes, vexed and tired.

The precipitating circumstance of the day’s events was that Beelzebub had taken Aziraphale up to the surface for some practice using his demonic animal form. It turns out that already having wings and already being able to fly has very little bearing on how easy it is to control an unfamiliar body roughly eight times smaller than you ought to be.

Naturally, crow-Aziraphale had quickly wobbled off course, dipped out of sight, and overshot the intended landing point by a landslide. It just so happens that a crow can fly six miles fairly easily in ten minutes, which is of course all the time it took for him to get extremely lost.

The crow just lowers its head guiltily, and Beelzebub heaves a heavy sigh. Ze’s walked for over an hour and a half to catch up to him, and at this point, ze is too tired to bother being angry.

“Playtime’s over. We’re going home. Change back,” Beelzebub says. The crow, of course, does not comply, because it cannot, but it shambles up to zir feet with a mincing hop.

“Can you even manage that much?” Ze asks.

The crow begins to shuffle and pace and make a sound that is half-chirp, half-nervous mumble, which is a surprisingly unnerving sound to hear from a bird.

“I-- I can’t understand you,” Beelzebub says, at which it starts flapping its wings in frustration and anxiety.

“Alright, alright, stop, that’s enough!” Ze kneels down. “Just-- forget it. Come on, I’ll take you back, we’re going to figure this out. No need to throw a tantrum about it.” The crow gingerly perches on zir forearm, and ze mumbles, “happens to the worst of us, you know. We’ll get this sorted out.”

And later that day, he’ll find that ze makes good on zir word for once, and he’ll dust himself off, flex his fingers and reach into his pocket, where he will find the sunglasses Crowley gave him, safe and sound.

For now, though, Beelzebub carries the crow that is Aziraphale home in silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last chapter I promised Crowley and Aziraphale would finally get to meet up. Well! I didn't promise one of them wouldn't be a bird for the entire scene. I also didn't promise that Crowley wouldn't be an idiot about his feelings, but that's kind of par for the course. 
> 
> Apparently, in the book, it is stated that Crowley doesn't like to transform into a snake because he is afraid he'll forget how to turn back. I kind of interpreted that as saying that it's not really unheard of for demons to get stuck in their animal forms, if they have them. 
> 
> So, crow!Aziraphale, then! You might be wondering: why would Beelzebub choose this creature for Aziraphale? The short answer is probably that some demon idiot went "haha wouldnt it be funny if aziraphale were a crow bc he likes CROWley" and Beelzebub was like, that's exactly what I'm going to do. Creativity, uh, isn't a demon's strongsuit after all. That said, I was set on crow before I even wrote chapter one, so I have my reasons, otherwise (and so does Beelzebub). I also _did_ give him one (1) white wing feather, but I don't have an excuse for that one. I just liked the aesthetic™. 
> 
> I also ended up doing a surprising amount of crow-related math this chapter. Apparently a crow can fly 30 - 60 miles per hour. The average walkspeed of a healthy human is apparently 3.1 miles per hour. Crow!Aziraphale would be able to fly 6 miles in 10 minutes if he were to fly at 36 miles per hour. Assuming Beelzebub runs _part_ but _not all_ of the way to catch up (and doesn't like, drive, or catch a bus), ze could probably get there in under two hours. I hate math. The things I do for good omens. -.-
> 
> The lyric of this chapter's title is taken from Twin Skeletons by Fall Out Boy. It's like, comically apt for this chapter, so of course I had to use it. At any rate, I was shooting for having three chapters out this month, and I'm glad I was able to do it ! Thank you all again for sticking with me, as always. I hope you enjoyed this chapter, and see you next time. (Good luck in school for those of you who are starting it!)


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